Holly Bourne

My house used to look quite nice.

My body used to look quite nice.

My face.

My life.

It didn’t even just look quite nice. It felt nice.

I was happy. On reflection, really quite deliciously happy.

And I’ve ruined it. Bulldozed it. Fucked it up forever.

I get a precious half hour to myself and I waste it with another panic attack.

Stupid Past Me for thinking it was a good idea to have a baby.

Stupid Past Me for thinking I’d be a good mother.

Stupid Past Me for marrying my stupid fucking husband.

How come it’s OK that my friends are always late now? When did having children make their time more important than mine?

‘My friends keep telling me to be patient. That soon all the divorcees will be joining the dating pool. Men who’ve had their children, and it’s broken the marriage apart, and how exciting to meet a sexy unicorn woman who doesn’t want her own kids. Perfect. And I’m like . . . “Excuse me. The whole point of being child-free is just that . . . I don’t want children. Let alone to look after someone else’s fucking children every other week.” Also, I’m not particularly attracted to men who leave the mothers of their children. Unless they’ve been chased out of the house at knifepoint (and, to be honest, with weaponised incompetence being as bad as it is, even then I can hardly blame a knife-wielding wife), then I simply cannot get a lady-boner for someone who left the person who grew an actual human for them, almost died pushing it out, and then sacrificed their career, identity, tits and pension raising it . . . But, oh yay, come
into my dating pool. Let me count my spoils. Mmm mother-leavers. Lucky selfish child-free me!’

Motherhood can’t be that hard, can it? I honestly don’t think having a baby can be as hard as pregnancy. At least when the baby is here, I’ll get my body back. I’ll get more sleep once I’m not hunched around an animated fleshy beachball that kicks me in the ribs all night. When the baby is here, I won’t have gurgling heartburn anymore. I’ll be able to have a hot bath, drink more than one coffee, do a shot of tequila, not worry they’re stillborn every time they don’t kick for an hour.

Youthfulness is a feeling. A lightness. An openness. An optimism.’

But how do you know he’s The One if you haven’t had a chance to see what you’re like when you’re with other people? What they bring out of you?’

That’s the biggest headfuck about motherhood – there’s no going back. There’s no trial period or refund with a receipt. You can’t possibly imagine how ridiculously hard it is, and when you do, it’s too late.

‘The things people think make them happy, often don’t,’ she always said. ‘Make sure you want things because you want them, Steffi, not because everyone tells you to want them.’